


You feel like breathing

by wintercreek



Category: due South
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-04
Updated: 2010-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-05 19:05:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintercreek/pseuds/wintercreek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meg's finding it hard to breathe now. The hallway is short and she can't be so out of shape that a brief sprint leaves her struggling for air; it's more that there's a weight on her chest, or maybe a band around it. Something tight and heavy. Fraser's door is slightly ajar and light spills out of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You feel like breathing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [icepixie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icepixie/gifts).



> No one is surprised that Icepixie asked for F/T, and no one is surprised that I immediately wrote it for her. Title is from [Rosi Golan's 'Come Around,'](http://www.ilike.com/artist/Rosi+Golan/track/Come+Around), which Icepixie recced to me. How pleasingly the snake eats its own tail.

She tears down the hallway, high heels wobbling and long skirts hiked to her knees. The glitter of the evening continues behind her and the Italian ambassador is probably still staring at the doorway, puzzled. It doesn't matter.

Meg's hearing it over and over in her ears, the Deputy Commissioner's casual reference to the upcoming shift of personnel. "You must be pleased, Inspector," he'd said. "Chicago has a reputation as the reforming point for misfits. Sending one back to Canada, and to a post in Ottawa no less, speaks well of your guidance." He'd winked and added, "Perhaps we'll keep you here indefinitely, as a last resort."

She'd smiled weakly and made some joke about how much she enjoyed being a good influence. She hadn't been paying attention any more - she'd been wracking her memory for transfer requests submitted and authorized. Lately she'd been signing things without reading them, desultory and dulled. Lately she'd been letting things slip.

It's Fraser who's the good influence here, Fraser who's keeping Turnbull on an even keel and refusing to rise to the baiting remarks she jabs at him. If anyone is transferring back home and taking a coveted post, it must be Fraser.

It's Fraser who has reason to leave, too. He'd intercepted her on her way out the door two weeks ago and asked, halting but somehow sure, if she wanted to have dinner with him. Meg had stammered at him, fumbling the whole thing. "Dinner, Constable? Do you have a business matter to discuss? A dignitary to entertain? Or -" and she'd paused, face heating, "is this a personal matter? Because personal matters, while all well and good in the personal sphere, might have a way of becoming professional matters. And if there's anything this Consulate can't allow for, it's any slipping in professional conduct."

He'd ducked his head and closed his eyes. When he looked up again, he'd spoken smoothly and calmly as always. "Of course, sir. I understand completely. Have a pleasant evening." And he'd held the door for her, like he was some kind of glorified butler, and she'd walked through it. It had taken three blocks to get her head on straight and realize that she'd passed her car.

She's been sending him on pointless errands and refusing to meet his gaze for thirteen days. Everything about her, from the set of her shoulders to the emails she writes him, has been pushing him away.

Meg's finding it hard to breathe now. The hallway is short and she can't be so out of shape that a brief sprint leaves her struggling for air; it's more that there's a weight on her chest, or maybe a band around it. Something tight and heavy. Fraser's door is slightly ajar and light spills out of it.

Before she can think any more about it, Meg pushes the door open. Apologies fall incoherently from her tongue, "I'm sorry about- I didn't mean- It isn't that I-" and she stops herself in order to meet his eyes. "Benton. Don't go."

"Go, sir?" He looks blankly back.

When she tears her eyes from his face and looks around, Meg realizes that nothing is packed, that his office is just as it always is. "You're not leaving?"

Fraser shakes his head. "No, it's Constable Turnbull who has arranged a transfer. Sir." He peers at her, concerned.

Meg sucks in a breath and lets it out. It's like she's gasping on shore, like she's finally broken the surface of the water after far too long. Before Fraser can tilt his head inquisitively and ask politely if anything is wrong, she's around the corner of the desk. One more stride and she's crashing into him.

Her arms go around his shoulders and one hand lands on the back of his neck. She brings their lips together with a force like a tidal pull, inexorable. Every part of her is on fire. Their bodies are flush against each other from chest to knees and each inch of sweet contact is intoxicating. Meg tongues his lips, wanting more, and miraculously Fraser - _Benton_ \- opens his mouth under hers. She might melt, might fall apart from this alone, might lose herself in the slide and the sensation. One of his hands presses against the small of her back and grips the fabric there; she moans.

Benton pulls back and Meg keens low in her throat, missing the contact already. He rests his forehead on hers and they breathe each other's air, eyes closed, gathering themselves. When Meg opens her eyes again, Benton locks his gaze on hers.

"I'm not leaving," he says, voice gravely.

Meg kisses him again. "Thank God," she whispers. "I-"

"You?" Benton asks, eyebrows raised.

"I need you," she tells him. "I- I can't- Dinner isn't enough. I can't do this halfway." Benton's silent, and Meg's breath catches in her throat. She's paralyzed. All she can hear is her heart, pounding in her ears. She thinks of trains and bombs and gunshots. None of them sound like the roaring rising up to cover her.

Benton shakes his head ever so slightly. "Neither can I." He tilts his head and kisses her mouth, her cheek, her forehead.

Meg pulls her shaking hands to his chest and grabs his tunic, holding on. "Okay."

"Okay," he answers, and buries his face in her neck.

She rests her cheek on the scratchy serge covering his shoulder and breathes, deep and even, easy, finally.


End file.
